Midwinter Sun
Dooku only does not kill the thing because his senses are quick enough to inform him it is not, in fact, a threat. He still has his lightsaber in his hand, and he stares at the dog – missing an eye, with a half-chewed-off ear – pawing at his knees. Without looking up, he says calmly, "Jinn, get this mutt off me before I decide to shave off its fur."
There is a burst of giggles, but Jinn quickly grabs the squirming thing and huddles it to his chest.
Dooku powers down his lightsaber, sits up properly, and scrubs the sleep out of his eyes. Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, Jinn had raised the blinds, and pale sunlight illumes him. It paints a surreal picture, him and a scruffy speckled dog – a puppy, now that Dooku looks properly – in the same quarters as Dooku.
I have a Padawan, he thinks. Then, more wearily, I have a Padawan. A month of partnership has not watered down the shock. "What," he says, glaring at the mutt, "is this."
"Pepper," says Jinn with a big grin, and Dooku feels a headache beginning to form. This inclination towards naming animals must be quashed at some point – it encourages attachment, affection even. Better for living things to be lost in the grey of anonymity.
"Why is it here?"
"She looked sad," Jinn says, as if that is an adequate reason to be dragging mangy strays into your Master's bed at six in the morning.
"And you didn't," Dooku continues, enunciating each word, "remember that animals that are not guides are not permitted at the embassy? I know you read the mission brief."
Jinn's brow furrows, and then he averts his gaze and sucks his teeth, looking chagrined – but not much.
Dooku boggles at how a child prodigy can still be – well, such a child. Jinn had topped every subject at the Temple (excluding Jedi etiquette, but that is one of the less important ones, anyway), but Dooku now realises he had mistaken excellence in studies for a respect for detail mostly seen first in people's mid-teens.
The weight of the situation – having the charge of a wayward ten-year-old – falls on him like a brick, and he puts his face in his hand. Dooku himself had been knighted at twenty, and his decision to almost immediately take on a Padawan had been ill advised (loudly, by the Council).
He had been adamant about training Jinn, if for no other reason than the boy is a prodigy and there would not have been another like him by the time Dooku was 'mature enough' to choose an apprentice. Someone else might have snatched Jinn up by then, ruining him with inadequate tutelage. Dooku had always wanted the best – he had been prodigious himself, and taking on an average Padawan had not been on his list of things to accomplish. To him, 'smart' and 'strong' were never good enough; a person was extraordinary or nothing.
He slots back to the present when Jinn calls his name. "Master Dooku, are you well?" Jinn is saying, leaning forward. It is flattering, but unnecessary.
"Yes."
There is still worry brimming in Jinn's wide eyes. They are an unusual colour; at first Dooku had assumed they were brown (he had never scrutinised Jinn's face), because they are dark. But one afternoon at the end of a joint meditation session, the light had caught Jinn's eyes, and they shone a deep blue. They are somewhat eerie, and Dooku finds himself unsettled. Must Jinn stare, like a common brat?
He decides he will deal with the boy's shortcomings later. Rolling off the bed, he sighs and says, "Take the dog out. Leave it where you found it."
Jinn clutches the puppy closer and says in something dangerously close to a whine, "But she's alone."
"You don't know that," says Dooku, his temper beginning to fray. Nothing tests him quite like children; perhaps, he thinks grudgingly, the Council had been right in their objections.
Still, Jinn is his responsibility now, and Dooku will hammer the ways of the Jedi into him if he has to. "I am ordering you as your Master to get rid of that thing. Then get ready; we are to meet the heads of state in Council Chamber II at 9, and I will not have us be late. You need to finish your studies before that. Breakfast is at 7."
He goes to the 'fresher and shuts the door before Jinn can protest. After brushing his teeth, shaving, and enjoying the luxury of a water shower (at the Temple it is frowned upon), he stands before the mirror and runs a hand over his smooth jaw. With his stature and bearing, he cuts an imposing figure, but even so he looks inexperienced, callow – with a boy half his age tottering after him. Embassies are informed beforehand of Masters and Padawans, but to the public it can appear…unseemly. He has been mistaken once for a 'young father' already, on Alderaan. The insinuation of 'too young', and everything else that suggests, had glittered in the woman's sharp gaze.
Shaking off the memory, he dresses and goes outside, and is pleased to find the room devoid of any furry creatures. (The hair is another matter; Jinn is going to have his hands full in the evening).
Jinn is sitting at the edge of the bed, swinging one leg and pouting.
"Don't fidget," says Dooku absently, picking up his boots and starting to put them on. "Go use the 'fresher. Off with you."
By the time Jinn emerges, his clothes damp, Dooku's stomach is rumbling. He eyes Jinn, clicks his tongue, and kneels down, smoothing Jinn's hair and using a handkerchief to rid his cheek of a dirt stain that survived the shower. It is an inelegant gesture, but Dooku finds that there is something appealing about the paternal note, about the way Jinn wrinkles his nose but allows himself to be cleaned.
He tucks the handkerchief back into his pocket, rises, and thinks, Ridiculous, though it has no bite in it.
The meeting opens with discussions of trade and then shifts to military aid, which is really what the government of this planet wants, to keep a hostile neighbour at bay. No matter; Sha'ka's water-purifying technology is advanced enough to vastly improve the standard of living on Core and Mid-Rim worlds. (The Outer Rim has greater need for it, but of course, the Senate pays small mind to the Outer Rim; to them, backwater worlds are only useful for exploitation through economic loopholes). And while Dooku scarcely cares a jot for Sha'ka and its offerings, he has been tasked with getting them to join the Republic, and that is what he will see done.
Aside from one instance, wherein he visibly suppresses a sneeze, that first discussion goes flawlessly. Even Jinn is quiet, taking notes instead of trying to poke holes in the politicians' propositions, like Dooku had feared he would. Prodigy or not, Jinn is susceptible to rebelliousness, and while Dooku encourages lateral thinking, he cannot condone insolence for mere shock value. Tawdry. Cheap. He will not allow his Padawan to be either.
He feels an odd flare of pride at the thought. Before it can become too strong, he returns his attention to the council chamber. Most of the politicians have left, and are having tea out in the hall. Jinn is all but bouncing in his seat next to him, clearly ravenous. He is tall for his age, and Dooku has to remind himself that growing boys have banthas' appetites.
Grasping the back of Jinn's neck, he herds him outside and then lets go, watching him dash off to the table with finger sandwiches and fried vegetables. By the time Dooku gets his tea – a reddish drink with a flavour like honeysuckle – Jinn has bounded back to him, his plate piled high and his mouth bulging. "Chew properly," Dooku admonishes, "and don't run about – we are at an embassy."
Jinn finishes swallowing and says, grinning, "So I can run about when we're not at an embassy?"
Dooku should be horrified at the boy's brazenness, but instead he finds he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "If you wish for extra drill sets," he says, deadpan, and Jinn only smiles wider.
A politician walks up to them, appearing to desire conversation, and Dooku prepares, again, to not say anything he actually wants to say. Their name is Ankh, if Dooku remembers correctly. The minister of home affairs.
"Your son?" says Ankh, showing their teeth.
Dooku puts his hands behind his back to resist rubbing his temples. Clearly, Ankh missed the brief about the Jedi, or was not paying attention. "My apprentice," Dooku replies with a nod. He would say 'Padawan', but many times it is easier to avoid the word and the string of questions that follows.
Jinn gives a bow – perfect even by Dooku's standards, low enough to be respectful, but not enough to be subservient – and says, with as much dignity as he can while holding a plate full of food, "Minister."
"Oh, such a polite child!" Ankh exclaims, reaching out and pinching Jinn's cheek.
Dooku has to stop himself from pulling Ankh away; Jedi are not used to touching, and many find it uncomfortable. But this is a diplomatic mission and they are guests on a foreign world, and many cultures, especially densely populated, community-focused ones like this one, do not understand personal space or non-sexual 'no touching' norms. It is not right or wrong – just a different way of living. He will have to have this talk with Jinn at some point.
Though, he thinks with slight irritation, Ankh could have taken the trouble to look up Jedi culture in turn.
Jinn, to his credit, does not even stiffen, though he is flushing a bit, and says, "You are too kind."
Dooku can only just catch the sarcasm. It is so masterfully delivered that Ankh apparently cannot detect it, and laughs, letting go of him. Dooku is impressed; already Jinn has the raw skill of a diplomat – this is not Dooku's training, but Jinn's own inclination.
"Clever boy," he says, once Ankh is out of earshot. "Though I should punish you for leaving room to offend our hosts."
Jinn looks at him with guileless eyes that Dooku has learned to mistrust. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Master," he says.
"Brat," Dooku returns with good humour.
Jinn is still flushing. Perhaps his aversion to touch goes beyond mere dislike. Dooku frowns at the idea. Jedi may not like touching, but they do not often brood about it.
Before he can mull over it, he sneezes again, muffling the sound with a hand. Stars above, has he caught a cold? He cannot afford to be ill right now. Perhaps if Jinn were older and educated enough to handle such missions alone, Dooku could rest easy, but a month ago Jinn was just an Initiate. His braid can charitably be called a stub.
"Let us return to our quarters," he says, wiping his nose with a tissue that he grabs from a table. "I have work for you, after your exercises; do not think your evening will be spent lounging in the gardens."
"Yes, Master," Jinn says, sullen.
Jinn is slower than usual with his exercises that afternoon, and afterwards, while cleaning the room of the hairs, keeps stopping to moan and groan and sniffle into a hanky. "I think you gave me your runny nose, Master," he says, sniffling.
"I would never be so ill-mannered," returns Dooku dryly, without looking up from his datapad. "You missed a spot there, behind the couch."
Jinn grows even slower over the next couple of days. True, the gym near the embassy is cramped and ill lit and leaves much to be desired, but Jinn stumbles through his forms, and then imbalances while doing a simple handstand and pitches onto his back with an 'oof'.
Dooku goes over to him and pulls him up. "What's gotten into you, boy?" he says, baffled. He refuses to entertain the idea that Jinn bested other Initiates in P.E. as a fluke. You win that many times, it's not chance; it's talent and work.
There are two bright spots on Jinn's cheeks. "I dunno, Master," he slurs. "I don't feel so good."
Dooku inwardly curses. He should have realised sooner. Jinn does not get embarrassed easily; nor does he make so many mistakes during training. "The healers here do house calls," he says. "We'll go back to our quarters."
The healer turns out to be a droid with a head that hovers over its body. It pokes and prods at Jinn, takes his temperature (100 standard), and shines a torch into his mouth. "It is a cold," it concludes. Dooku is always suspicious of medical translations into Basic on non-Republic worlds; so many things can be disastrously miscommunicated. "I recommend ibuprofen, lots of fluids, and rest. It should take care of itself within two days."
Something snicks in Dooku's mind. "Could it be an allergy?"
"It is possible."
And for that, the droid has Dooku's respect. Many healers and medical droids refuse to think of anything but their initial diagnosis, until the condition actually worsens. Then again, he supposes they cannot keep second-guessing themselves, either.
"I didn't know you could get fever from allergies," says Jinn.
The droid spins its globular head with a whir. "Regardless of cause, when you develop congestion, the buildup of mucous in the sinuses can be a place for bacteria to breed. You can get fever if an infection takes hold."
Jinn nods, though he does not look as if he understood any of that.
The droid says, "Have you consumed or come in contact with any unusual substances, or substances you know you are allergic to?"
"Um," says Jinn, looking dazed. He is lying in his bed with the covers drawn to his hips, and he seems small and frail. Dooku has the absurd urge to stroke his soft spikes of hair. "No…?"
"The dog," says Dooku, remembering. "Jinn found a dog on the streets and brought it to our quarters a couple of days ago, against regulations. Though honestly, you can have an allergic reaction to anything. It could even be the bedsheets." He pauses. "Come to think of it, I may have an allergy, as well; I have been sneezing throughout the day, though I feel fine otherwise." Privately, he is grateful he has experienced nothing but sniffles; Jinn has received the short end of the stick.
The droid bobs its head, its digits flying over a datapad. "I will take a blood sample from both of you and send it to pathology. Until you receive the results tomorrow evening, I recommend having the sheets changed."
Dooku waits until the droid collects the samples, and then contacts the reception. "This is Jedi Knight Dooku from Coruscant," he says. "My apprentice has fallen ill, and it is possible it is an allergic reaction. A medical droid has examined him, but I would like a couple of things done."
"Certainly, Sir," says the voice at the other end. "I am sorry for this unfortunate incidence. I will have the room swept and sterilised and the bedsheets changed."
"Actually," says Dooku, aware he is being somewhat audacious and hoping he only comes across as authoritative, "I would like to switch rooms, if possible. Apprentice Jinn is quite ill and I would rather not take chances." Risking offending the politicians via a possibly unnecessary request. What is wrong with him? Perhaps his own allergy has addled his brains.
"...Certainly, Sir," the person says, and Dooku imagines a fist in their face. Plebeian? Yes, but it helps.
An hour later, he and Jinn are hovering in front of the biometric reader of another room's door. "All done," says the attendant, with a strained smile. Dooku does not grit his teeth, but he thinks, It's just different quarters. I didn't ask for the security codes to your prisons. Just to spite them, he says, very politely, "And may we have dinner brought up to the room for Apprentice Jinn? I do not think he is well enough to join us in the hall."
"I would have come down for dinner, Master," Jinn says after they have settled in, visibly mortified despite his tiredness. "You know I can handle it."
Decorum would have demanded that, yes, and Jedi can handle sickness better than most. Dooku waves a hand. "Eat in bed," he grunts. "Consider your punishment for bringing the mutt in postponed."
Jinn looks at him morosely.
The dining hall is filled with conversation that touches everything and expands on nothing. Strange, Dooku thinks, how everyone knows how empty such chatter is, and yet these are the types of platitudes that are encouraged in politics, especially in the Republic. Not for the first time, he wonders if the current political system is the most efficient one for the welfare and development of Republic citizens. And for others. The Republic may parade itself as a noble, selfless union, but it offers no help to other systems, or even systems in the Outer Rim.
Still, he finds his usual vitriol towards the Senate tempered; Jinn occupies the majority of his thoughts. What will one do if it is an allergy and it worsens? He doubts his Padawan will go into anaphylactic shock, but there is still a speck of chance, at least in his medically untrained mind. Then the foreign minister distracts him with an inane question about what Dooku thinks of the architecture of this city, and he is obliged to indulge them.
If his gait as he walks to his quarters is quicker than usual, he does dwell on it.
The room is dark. "Lights, thirty percent," says Dooku.
There is a lump of blankets where Jinn had been on the bed, and a glass of water and a bottle of pills on the bedside table. Dooku walks over and sits at the edge of the mattress, and the lump stirs and moans. "Don't be so dramatic," says Dooku, pulling back the covers.
Jinn's face is blotched pink and his eyes closed. There is a furrow between his brows. Dooku fishes a thermometer out of the drawer and takes Jinn's temperature again. "101 standard," he declares, waving it in front of Jinn' nose; there is some entertainment to be had in gently irritating him. "The things you do, boy."
"Nnngbrhh," says Jinn, swatting weakly at Dooku's hand.
"Eloquent. You will make a fine diplomat."
"Mmrfgh."
"Yes, I know."
"Aaugh."
"No, there aren't any cloves, but I can make you regular tea which I brought from Coruscant."
Dooku had liked the idea of having his Padawan serve him tea, especially after so many years of serving Yoda tea. (That old troll would not be satisfied if a Nubian handmaiden performed a tea ceremony for him). He had thought he would take a permissible amount of gratification in nitpicking Jinn's tea-brewing skills, but soon found that he did not care, and anyway, Jinn's serving him quickly became routine, unremarkable.
He would have taken this opportunity to show Jinn how tea is properly brewed (the boy's tea could be swapped for swill and you wouldn't guess it), but Jinn is too ill to even register the taste of the tea, let alone observe how it is made. He sips at it, then sets it aside, half finished, and wriggles back beneath the covers with a sigh.
Dooku sits at the writing table and begins to reread an article on his datapad about Sha'ka's universities. After a while, Jinn mumbles something.
"What was that?" Dooku says, squinting at a pie chart of the most popular subjects. Why in the Maker's name is cake technology management at 14 percent…
"…wish you'd call me Qui-Gon. No one calls me Jinn."
Dooku's brain grinds to a halt. What? "You…dislike the name Jinn?" he tries. He himself had only ever been addressed by his last name: Initiate Dooku, Padawan Dooku, Knight Dooku. Sometimes he forgets his given name is not a tacked-on appendix. The few friends who had called him Yan had dropped the habit by the time they were in their teens.
"No, but…Qui-Gon's my name."
"So is Jinn," replies Dooku. He has always taken pride in his family name. It is a lineage, a history. 'Yan' was just the whim of his mother. Or father. What's more, it is boring, unremarkable.
Jinn emits a low whine and buries himself beneath the blankets again. Dooku goes over and sits on the bed, about to mention that it is protocol for Jedi to address each other by their family name, if they have one. Before he can open his mouth, Jinn says, his voice muffled, "Do you like me?" He sounds tentative. Unsure.
Dooku's knee-jerk reaction is to say, What nonsense. I chose you. I approve of you, but he knows that liking someone is different to approving of them. Then he thinks of saying, Does it matter?, but quickly discards the idea. Jinn is too sensitive for that to go down well. And a part of Dooku does not want to hurt Jinn's feelings.
Does he like the boy? Dooku has a string of qualities that could be considered failings, especially by the Council – but dishonesty is not one of them. Certainly he does not dislike Jinn. And he has to admit that over these past few weeks he has developed a certain…he is not sure what to call it. It is not strong enough for affection, too strong for mere neutrality. "Yes," he says slowly, as if testing to himself the truth of the word. The Force hums with him – Yes.
Jinn draws a quiet breath.
"And," Dooku adds, "I will call you Qui-Gon, if you so wish it." He does not understand – not really – but he will not do his Padawan the disservice of denying him such a harmless desire. And, he supposes, if he dislikes being called Yan, the boy can dislike being called Jinn.
"Master," says Jinn.
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"It is nothing."
"Master?"
"Yes?"
"Can you cuddle me?"
"I will die first," says Dooku, as if talking about the weather, his hands folded neatly on his lap.
Jinn – Qui-Gon – snorts with laughter, and Dooku is most certainly not smiling.
This mission had, Dooku thinks, been a good learning experience for Qui-Gon, considering the boy had expressed interest in becoming a diplomat. And with the negotiations as successful as they were, he can expect little to no friction with the High Council when they get back.
He sighs softly in rare contentment as he nestles into his cot with his holonovel. The hum of the ship lulls him into languidness. Their cabin is quiet; thank goodness Qui-Gon is not one of those hyperactive little terrors that like to run around shrieking. He is sitting in his cot, dutifully doing his physics homework.
A short high-pitched sound makes Dooku cock his head. Qui-Gon hunches into himself, eyes glued to his datapad.
Dooku waits a moment, stock-still, and bites back a curse when a meek, barely audible skree comes again. He puts down his holonovel and begins to count to ten. He gets to three before he stands up and marches over to Qui-Gon, grasps him by the scruff of the neck like an insolent pup, and pulls him off the cot. "Where is it?" he asks tonelessly.
"Where's what?" says Qui-Gon, all innocence.
As if in response, there is another, somewhat distressed, skreee.
"You have five seconds, Padawan."
As Qui-Gon scrambles under his cot, Dooku pinches the bridge of his nose. This little quirk could wind up being disastrous. What will Qui-Gon do next? Pick a toxic flower and drop dead on the spot? Slip a dirty rodent into his pocket which infects and potentially kills off the entire embassy of a planet that Coruscant wants to maintain good relations with?
All right, decides Dooku, stopping himself. Now you are catastrophising.
Qui-Gon straightens, holding out his knapsack. The head of a wombat-like creature is popped out of it, its crooked whiskers twitching. It blinks its beady dark eyes at Dooku and emits another skree.
How, thinks Dooku wearily, feeling a strange detachment from everything, how does one manage this? "We will give that to the science specialists at the Temple so they can drop it off in a suitable environment. And you will have an hour's extra lightsaber training every day for the next month."
"Master!" cries Qui-Gon, paling.
"I suggest you think of the most efficient way to get your homework done alongside your physical education."
"But – "
"Best get a head start on your studies now," Dooku says blandly, getting comfortable on his cot with his datapad again. Protocol demands that they hand over the animal to the ship's crew, but then they would probably have to deal with charges pressed on the grounds of the thing not already having a rabies shot. Or a health certificate. He decides they can keep the thing in their cabin for the remainder of their day-long journey back to Coruscant.
He sneezes. Then sneezes again. From across the cabin Qui-Gon makes a strangled sort of sound, as if trying not to laugh.
"I am," Dooku thinks, with the conviction of a man who is used to getting what he wants through grit alone, "going to curb this habit of picking up pathetic creatures once and for all."
-end-